


Leitmotif

by Palus_Hiemalis



Category: Un monstre à Paris | A Monster in Paris (2011)
Genre: (I hope), Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, major feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palus_Hiemalis/pseuds/Palus_Hiemalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francoeur writes a symphony for Lucille and asks himself what happiness means to him. He struggles with his own intelligence and the perceptions of others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leitmotif

**Author's Note:**

> How smart is francoeur exactly?  
> The movie seems to dub him as only fully sentient/sapient when singing, the rest of the time he is a giant animal, which is really very odd to me. Especially since he can make quite elaborate lyrics and references when singing, hell, in one of the first instances that he sings, we see he can read! I wanted to explore the idea that Franc gained remarkable intelligence when he recieved the spray of the chemical, and that the singing was almost a sideeffect of something intended to make animals smarter. None of this is mentioned in the fic, jsyk, its more speculation than anything. The whole thing is tragic fluff.  
> Enjoy.

"Francoeur, no!"  
Franc trilled a laugh and shunted at the door, Lucille was pushing back laughing, she forgot how strong he was until he wanted to be somewhere he shouldn't.  
"Franc! I need to change my petticoat into that big hoop and I cannot do it with you in there looking at me, can I?"  
Francoeur grinned cheekily, he didn't really understand why humans put layers of fabric on themselves, probably because they didn't have a carapace to protect them from everything, but he found the coyness about taking off all of these layers quite unnecessary. He respected it, mostly, but he wanted to get in and finish taking down some notes on his next song.  
Lucille tried to quash her smile and slammed the door, "Stay out there, I won't be long!"  
Franc rolled his eyes and bent to eye-level with the keyhole and stared through, not that he could see anything which he knew. It was more just mid-show teasing.  
Lucille began to unlace her corset when she saw the blaring red eye move to the keyhole, she made a short gasp and yelled, "I said, NO!" Before kicking the door.  
From behind the door there was a little screech and a thud as Francoeur landed, she put her hands over her mouth and ran to open it.  
Franc was toppled over, suit dishevelled, hat someway down the corridor.  
"Are you alright?! I am sorry-- It was just that-- You mustn't do that, Francoeur!" She helped him up and collected his hat, he shook himself and looked apologetically at her as he pulled back his sleeve and tussled his bristles.  
"Oh, I see, the sound hurt you? I am sorry, will you forgive me?" Lucille took his wrist and kissed it.  
Francoeur smiled dipped his head before adjusting his mask.  
"I know what that means, you cannot say no to Lucille, eh?" She laughed and stood up, "Well, in the mean time you can guard my room for a few minutes from real nuisances, like Raoul..."  
She closed the door before he could raise a hand and sighed. He really didn't like it when people put words in his mouth, even if they got it right on the nose what he was trying to get across, which with Lucille was always. It gave him little time to practise forming words without a melody behind it, it let people twist his words and made him feel a fool for not being able to reply to basic inquiries.  
He leaned against the door and smiled to himself, watching stagehands and managers sweep by, he tipped his hat and said hello where he could. Words still mostly escaped him. He stared off into the wallpaper and hangings, life was so good and if the worst thing that befell him was sore ears from a beautiful woman kicking a door in his direction, then that was just fine.  
In his distraction, a large bunch of flowers appeared at the door. They were white and almost star shaped, their scent was light and heady. The name escaped him and instead he checked the label of the bouquet:

_For Lucille, from, possibly, the happiest man alive..._

He frowned, what on earth did that mean? Was it a quote from a poem? Some sort of reference to a film? It unsettled him with its dot dot dot. As if he ws not being let in on some hilarious joke. He set the flowers back down on the mat and thought hard. The happiest man alive... How cryptic. How could one measure such a quality? Without stopping to measure his own life, he could very well be the happiest man alive. He was certainly the happiest flea, but most fleas did not stop to think about happiness. What was it that Voltaire had said, "I decided to be happy, it is excellent for one's health." Something of that sort.  
Watching staff scurry onwards to their posts, stopping to tell him he had such and such minutes left or that the floor was now packed, he thought about what made him happy. In his short life, he only remembered the last few months, and music was the sole highlight. Music made him happy. Singing and playing anything he could get his hands on gave him joy. His friends also helped bring him joy; Emile showed him movies, Raoul had taught him to drive a car, Maud brought him biscuits and good luck cards. Lucille gave him...   
He paused and remembered the previous performance. The golden blare of horns and the raucous beat of drums, the stomp of their heels against the floor boards of the stage, the smooth quail of Lucille's voice mingling with his own. He could be no where happier.   
Lucille was joy.  
The door opened suddenly and Lucille was wearing a dress with an old fashioned bustle and hat which dangled with beads and plumes. In the next number they pretended to be an old couple celebrating the youthful feeling in the air and the new blossoms of spring and something about love or another.  
She smiled at him, "Ready?"  
He opened his mouth, she looked so perfect in that dress, it was stuffy and gaudy, but she looked perfect. Words failed him.  
"Oh, what are these? Lilies?" She said, picking up the bouquet and burying her nose deep in the pale flowers. "From you?!"  
He shook his head and she read the label, her face softening yet with raised eyebrows, "Oh, I see..." She put the lilies in a vase.  
He gestured curiosity with a puzzled shrug.  
"Oh ho, jealous are we?" She smirked and preened her hair in the mirror before shutting the door.  
Franc chirped in protest, what did that mean? He hadn't even said anything, he had very clearly shrugged! He balled up his fists and leaned forward.  
"It was from Raoul, you silly, no need to flustered, you're still my number one bodyguard!"  
He exhaled with a slight hiss and she laughed. She took his hand as a frantic stagehand motioned to the wings, "Bien. Lets go."  
They took to the stage and sung, she spun around him and he dipped her in his arms. The melody was so old to him now it floated in one ear and out of the other, until all that was left was joy leading him by the hand to take his bows.


End file.
